Imatges de pàgina
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No sound save the rush of the river;

There's only the sound of the lone While soft falls the dew on the face

sentry's tread

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of the dead — The picket's off duty forever!

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ON THE TOMBS IN WESTMINSTER ABBEY.

MORTALITY, behold and fear
What a change of flesh is here!
Think how many royal bones
Sleep within these heaps of stones:
Here they lie, had realms and lands,
Who now want strength to stir their
hands,

Where from their pulpits seal'd with
dust

They preach, "In greatness is no trust."

Here's an acre sown indeed
With the richest royallest seed
That the earth did e'er suck in
Since the first man died for sin:
Here the bones of birth have cried
Though gods they were, as men
they died!"

Here are sands, ignoble things,
Dropt from the ruin'd sides of kings:
Here's a world of pomp and state
Buried in dust, once dead by fate.

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